


you can leave your worries

by dhils



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, nothing else, oh and danish hockey bot 2.0
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-19 22:38:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17010465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhils/pseuds/dhils
Summary: Freddie’s got a really nice smile. He just doesn't use it very often.





	you can leave your worries

**Author's Note:**

> i'm sorry i wrote this in under 12 hours and im just dkjhdsd i rlly wanted to get smthn out quick bc i've been so out of it lately thank u for dealing w/ me, lots of luv
> 
> title from fantasy by alina baraz

It’s only when Connor’s drunk out of his fucking mind and draped over Zach that he feels his phone buzz. He’s not in the mood to actually read whatever notification he got, but Zach fishes his phone out of his hoodie pocket and squints at the screen for what feels like a month before actually telling him what’s on there.

“Do you know who Frederik Andersen is,” Zach asks, and then lifts the phone to his mouth and all but yells, “Hey Siri.” 

“That’s not gonna work, I don’t use Siri,” Connor says, reaching for his phone. Zach gives in pretty easily, maybe because his eyes are just about glazing over. They should probably get some sleep, but, like. Frederik Andersen, apparently. 

When he actually reads the notification for himself, it’s something about a trade, and a goalie—which they certainly need—and Anaheim. Connor really doesn’t like the Ducks, but if this means they’re getting one of their goalies, why not. 

Zach’s looking at him a little expectantly, and Connor isn’t sure what to tell him. Mostly because he’s not sure what to tell himself. A goalie probably isn’t going to be the ultimate saviour of Toronto, you can’t clean up trash with just one broom, but it’s a start.

“Stanley Cup,” Zach says solemnly, and goes on to horrendously mispronounce Frederik in increasingly pathetic ways. 

 

 

Mitch puts Frederik—Freddie, apparently—into his phone because he’s best friends with everyone, Connor guesses. 

He doesn’t think he’s going to touch the contact at all, but it’s August, and he’s feeling ballsy, and he really, really doesn’t want to have to introduce himself to this guy at the start of the season when Mitch actually becomes best friends with him. So. 

He texts him, but it’s nothing big. He writes out a quick _hey! welcome to toronto :)_ which—yeah, he erases. But it’s only because he thinks he can come up with something better, if he tries a little harder.

Connor didn’t think trying harder meant spending the rest of the day trying to figure out what to text this guy. _This guy_ he doesn’t even know, but this guy who’ll be his future goaltender. And there are a lot of rules when it comes to hockey. Don’t cross the line before the puck, don’t check guys from behind, no head hits, and, for fuck’s sake, get along with your goalie. 

It’s probably an hour later, an hour and a half at it’s worst, when Connor finally bites the bullet and sends out a welcome text. And he texts Zach directly after, freaking out about how much of a trash human being Freddie is going to think he is, and all Zach responds with is, _freddie who lol_

Connor breathes out a sob and slumps back against his bed. 

 

 

Freddie turns out to be a really chill person. Like, really down to earth, serious and a little uptight, maybe. He texts with proper punctuation, and takes for fucking ever to respond to a single message, so that’s something. And Connor doesn’t even think he’s at all interested in talking to him, because the first time they see each other in person, he kind of just glances at him and goes back to talking to Mo.

Because Mo’s the kind of guy that gets along with everyone. He’s one of the kids, but people forget that sometimes. He doesn’t play the part most of the time, so of course he’s out there trying to make the new guy feel welcome.

“You could at least try getting along with him,” Mo tells him later. There’s a set in his shoulders and Connor wonders if he seriously has that much stress riding on him at all times. “He’s a cool guy, talk to him.”

“But I don’t, like, understand him,” Connor says, and scratches the back of his neck. “We’ve talked two times, that’s enough. We’re almost acquaintances.”

“You’re on the same team now, acquaintances isn’t going to cut it. This isn’t a kindergarten class,” Mo tells him with the roll of his eyes. “Wanna know the secret to talking to people?”

Connor nods his head.

“Open your mouth.” Mo knocks their shoulders together, and if it was any harder Connor would probably lose his balance. Practice took way too much out of him. “Say words.”

“I need good words though,” Connor tells him. Because no matter how many times he rehearses any introduction, he’s going to go up to Freddie, talk to him, and stutter his ass off. He’s not like Mitch or Zach, he can’t just go up to some guy he’s expected to be close buddies with and converse with him. He’s gotta prep himself over text, but he can’t really do that if said person doesn’t reply to anything he sends him. 

“Don’t be weird,” Mo says helpfully. “And don’t talk about being ginger. That’s like, the worst conversation you could possibly have. That, or _great weather we’re having_. None of those.”

Connor wishes he had a notepad to write this stuff down, because it might be self-explanatory, but he’s sure he’ll find a way to fuck this up regardless. 

And, “You’ll be great,” Mo promises. His smile is a little wonky, like he’s only using half his mouth.

 

 

Freddie’s tying up his skates when Connor musters up the courage to actually try and talk to him. It’s mostly just the result of Mo pushing him in the general direction of him, but Connor likes to think he just tripped. It makes things seem more like his own idea. 

“Hey,” he tries, and that catches Freddie’s attention, because he looks up through long, long lashes and Connor isn’t sure how to start this.

“Hi,” Freddie says. He’s only half dressed, but Connor still appreciates being able to talk to him while he’s out of most his equipment. Because Freddie’s—big. Connor’s definitely noticed. And the equipment certainly doesn’t help. 

“I’m Connor,” he says mildly, unsure about whether he should introduce himself, so, “I’m not sure if you knew or not, but. Yeah.” Which he isn’t very proud of, it sounds a little grating, and he definitely cringes after saying it, but Freddie looks pleased.

Or, as pleased as he can get, maybe. There’s a twinkle in his eyes, but it could also be the locker room’s harsh lightning. Connor thinks it might better to see it as the former, for his own confidence. “Yeah,” he says, sounding light. “I’m Freddie.”

Connor nods his head a little stiffly. “Well.” He isn’t sure what else to say, it’s not like he planned this far ahead. There were already sirens going off in his head, giving him that much responsibility would be a mistake. “I just wanted to welcome you properly, y’know. Toronto’s gonna love you.” 

There’s the faintest curve in Freddie’s lips, and Connor doesn’t even get why that feels like enough validation from him, but it does. “I’d hope so,” he says. “Then again, all anyone wants is a good season, yeah?” 

“Always,” Connor answers, and for the sake of avoiding answering that like an interview question he says, “I should get dressed. Or we might just get bag skated. Not fun.”

Freddie smiles in a way that it shows more in his eyes than on his face, crinkling the corners in a way that could probably steal Connor’s rationality from his head if he stared long enough. “I get it,” he says. “It was nice meeting you properly.”

Connor tries to keep his expression neutral until he turns to head back to his stuff, letting a grin spread over his lips.

 

 

So Freddie’s got a really nice smile. And an even nicer face.

It’s wasn’t the first thing Connor thought about him, but it’s what he’s thinking about right now, while he’s sitting in the passenger side of Zach’s car, staring at streetlights pass by in a blur of yellow. The window isn’t the cleanest, which has everything just a little fuzzier. Enough that Connor can let himself zone out for a minute, trying to connect Freddie’s eyes to hot cocoa. The kind that isn’t too sweet, but not too bitter either, somewhere in that golden median. 

“That’s so shitty,” Zach tells him, because Connor might just be incapable of keeping his mouth shut when it’s past ten and he’s running on five hours of sleep. “You’re such a dork, go write him a love poem.” 

“I’m not—I’m not doing that. We don’t even _know_ each other,” Connor stresses, squinting out the window a little harder. He can feel Zach look at him when they roll to a stop, but he refuses to catch his gaze. Probably because he’s petty. Or nervous. Or both. 

“Honestly, that’s completely fine by me. I’d rather you didn’t elope with our goalie,” Zach says. “Took us long enough to get one.”

“I’m telling Mac,” Connor says, and Zach rolls his eyes because he knows he won’t, but the threat is there regardless. 

They drive pass a billboard for Pizza Hotline, and, “We should pick up some food on the way back,” Zach offers.

Connor would love to take his mind off all of this with food, especially stuff that isn’t nutritionist approved, but he’d also rather not. Even if it has Zach frowning at him like a lost dog all night. 

 

 

Connor sees Auston taking shots on Freddie one morning, and it’s just a practice, but Auston’s actually trying, and Freddie’s barely short of unstoppable. Even when he’s getting just about every trick in the book pulled out on him. 

They laugh about it when Auston gets him in the mask with a shot, because you can hear the rattle throughout the entire rink, and Connor can’t help but look on in confusion, and wonder, a little bit of envy, if he’s honest. 

Both of them became the closest friends within days of the season formally starting, and Connor doesn’t know how or why, but Mitch insists it’s because they’re co-captains of the emotionally inept club. 

“Qualification to the club is just finding watching paint dry enjoyable,” Mitch says, like he’s actually put some form of research into this. “You would be turned away.”

“So would you.” Connor’s still watching them, and Auston shoots a slap shot hard enough to tear the net open. For a second, he thought it had. 

Mitch rolls his eyes. He doesn’t follow Connor’s gaze, and part of him is glad he doesn’t. “That’s because I’m fun.”

“I’m sure Freddie’s fun.” Connor collects the stray puck near them and dekes it through Mitch’s legs before Babs bag skates him for standing around and talking. Surprisingly enough, the idea of getting yelled at for treating the five minutes of free time they get before drills as _tea-time_ isn’t very excitable. 

“I’m sure you’d wanna know,” Mitch says. “Is this all you do all day? Talk about Freddie to other people? Instead of, like, talking to _him_?”

“No way,” Connor says quickly, but considering the skeptical look he gets in return, he isn’t sure Mitch is taking his words at face value. “Sometimes,” he adds. 

 

 

There are a lot of things about Freddie that Connor might not ever understand, but a lot of it involves the way Freddie can remain so fucking emotionless at all times. Like when he’ll make a save and his face remains a blank slate behind his mask. There’s nothing there, absolutely nothing.

Connor’s starting to think Freddie hates making saves in the first place, even though, from what he’s heard, it feels just as good as scoring a goal. If not better. Connor seriously can’t imagine going through a celly looking entirely unimpressed, so that’s something to consider. 

Connor just doesn’t see much of Freddie, especially because, again, they don’t know each other very well. He can barely will up the courage to talk to him, but what he shows on the surface will always stand out to him. 

He just wants to get that one smile again. The crinkle of his eyes that he’d gotten on that first day they’d actually met, and Connor chases it until he has a chance to see it again. 

Which—it doesn’t happen after Freddie makes a save, or shuts down Matthews, or even after Babs calls him out for doing _decent_. Connor manages to pull a smile from him when Zach calls him an orange from across the locker room, and Connor’s gotta pretend to be offended, because that’s fucking weak. But he can see Freddie’s smile from the corner of his eyes.

Connor chances a glance his way, just to catch him pushing damp hair out of his eyes, wearing a tiny smile. He’s got the palest flush bright against his cheeks, and Connor swears his tongue feels like sandpaper against the roof of his mouth. 

It’s hard not to look, but he tears his gaze away at some point. More or less because he has to, and gives Zach his attention again. “You gonna write a book about it?” He calls back, and Zach’s grinning at him wide enough to split his face. 

And he should probably be laughing, but all he can think about is Freddie, Freddie, Freddie—and the way he’d worn that smile. Graceful, and perfectly put together, not a single hair out of place. 

Connor’s not a sucker for perfection, but this is different. This is hope, and want, and need, and Connor’s new fucking goalie, so he really shouldn’t. But.

 

 

At 7 AM, Zach fills his mug to the brink with coffee, and normally Connor really wouldn’t need it. But there’s something about morning skates that steal the energy right out from under him. He knows he’s got shadows under his eyes, he can feel it in the way his vision refuses to be anything but bleary. Nonetheless, it’s still entertaining to watch Zach run around the kitchen trying to pull together a breakfast. 

“Why don’t you just make a smoothie,” Connor says, between a yawn. “You just put everything together and boom, breakfast in a cup. It takes two seconds.” He pauses, considering it. “I’ll add an extra second on for you because you’re slow, but even then.” 

“Because I don’t like listening to a fucking jackhammer first thing in the morning.” Zach gestures to the blender, and that’s more than an over exaggeration, but Connor gets it. Zach _is_ totally useless. “If you’re into that kind of thing, sure, but I have a life.”

“You woke me up for an optional skate, you have no life.” Connor takes a sip of his coffee. “Thanks for this, by the way,” he adds, because he‘s good people for the most part. 

“Sure,” Zach says. “I’m gonna kick your ass to the curb one of these days.” 

“I bet you wouldn’t,” Connor says.

“I mean, if I do, Freddie might take you in. In exchange for some _things_.”

Connor hurls a box of Kleenex at him. Zach isn’t great at dodging it while he’s laughing his ass off.

 

 

Connor takes a shot on Freddie during a warmup, and he’s not sure what exactly goes through his head when he’s flicking his wrist to rip it, but he softens the edges just a little. He practically aims for Freddie’s pads, and not for a second is he expecting it to go in. It isn’t really on purpose, but. 

“I can take a harder shot,” Freddie tells him, loud enough that Connor can hear him as he’s skating by to retrieve his puck. And that gets him to slow down some, considering whether or not that puck is even important anymore. 

“What?” He laughs a little, but Freddie’s face is stoned over, just like it always is on the ice. 

Freddie shrugs with one shoulder, and Connor can’t really see the way his mouth twists upwards, but his eyes go a little warmer. “Your shot was shit, if you need me to spell it out for you.“

“Yeah? Okay, I get it,” Connor says, and slides the puck back towards his blade. “Last chance to back out before I break your ankles.”

“Big talk from the kid who aims for pads.” Freddie flashes him a thumbs up, or at least the best he can through the glove, and he’s still wearing that smile. It’s fucking gorgeous

Connor isn’t sure if his shot is going to live up to the talk, especially with the gleeful brick wall in net to answer to. But he takes his chances anyways. 

(It doesn’t go in. And even then, Freddie knocks their helmets together, telling him anybody else would bite the dekes.)

 

 

They’re in the middle of a TV break when Freddie pulls his helmet off, and Connor wishes he wasn’t looking, but he’s right fucking there, and of course.

Anybody can see Frederik Andersen is attractive, shockingly so, but his expression is still perfectly stitched together as he stares out into space. There isn’t the briefest lick of actual enjoyment on his face. Even if they’re winning 3-1. 

He runs a hand through his hair and Connor wonders if it’s obvious that he’s staring, even if it’s from across the ice. And well, it very well might be because Zach shoves him hard enough that if Connor had been anymore lost, he’d hit the ice right there and then. 

Getting injured during a TV break probably wouldn’t look great anywhere, so he scowls at him. “What.”

“Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt—that.” He waves his hand in the air pretty generally, and Connor’s not sure if even Zach knows what it means. “But Mitch wants to talk to you, he looked. Mad.” 

Connor sighs exasperatedly and decides to deal with the consequences of filling Mitch’s glove with whipped cream later. Even if Mitch gets him in the back of the legs with his stick later. 

 

 

More often than not, Connor will take the seat at the back of the bus with Zach after losing. He’ll fall asleep and refuse to talk to him for the rest of the trip because he’s tired and Zach knows it. It’s nothing special that he can actually communicate his frustration through facial expressions, unlike _some people_. Some people who refuse to— _show emotion._

But Zach passes him an ear bud, and he’s playing something halfway decent, so Connor really just presses his cheek against the window and watches over the rest of the bus. 

They’re stuck in traffic and there’s a light shining directly in Connor’s face, but he really doesn’t wanna move. He just wants to melt into his seat and lose the feeling in his body. As long as they can get back to the hotel and he can forget any of this even happened. 

Not too far away from them, someone’s already snoring, all he can see of Mitch is the light from his phone on his face, and Freddie’s staring out the window. Connor doesn’t think he’d be able to read him if he tried. If somebody spelled it out for him, even. 

It’s like, he can clearly see Mitch is angry, and even Willy’s brows are pinched together, but Freddie looks like he’s carefully calculating something. Nothing but unbreakable concentration fanning out over the rest of the city. Connor wants him to relax, just once. He wants to slide into the seat next to him and tell him it’s okay not to hide everything he’s feeling. That it's fine to let it out.

But he lets his eyes slide shut instead, and he tries to let the rest of the world fall away.

 

 

When Connor walks into the locker room, a little too tired to process much more than the squeezing ache in his legs, he almost misses Zach talking to Freddie, looking over at Connor when he spares them a glance. 

He slumps down in his stall with an unforgiving thud and almost forgets he’s supposed to change until Mitch chirps out something about him getting old. Connor just passes him a smile and starts unlacing his skates.

Zach walks over to him moments later, and Connor’s still barely undressed, but Zach’s just about ready to leave.

“Hot date, Hyms?” Connor asks, and wears the best shit-eating smile he can muster.

“Yeah, wouldn’t you like to know,” he says, and gently kicks his foot with his shoe. “I’m heading to Will’s, you should try and get to know Freddie as, like, more than just the robot that goal tends.”

“I never said that.” Connor really hasn’t. He’s called him _out of it_ , not a fucking robot. But that would probably work, too. 

“You implied it.”

“I could’ve,” Connor admits. “But, you know what, there’s a difference. Go have fun with Willy, I’ll be alone. Here.”

“You can take the car,” Zach says, blatantly ignoring anything he’s just said. “Don’t die—don’t put your dick in the toaster.” 

“High standards.” Connor looks past him and catches Freddie’s gaze, he smiles instinctively, even if Freddie doesn’t really send one back. Or at least, he falters. 

“They better not be.” 

When Zach leaves, he throws Connor his car keys, and they get him right in the side of the face before clattering against the floor. 

Connor doesn’t really make much of a big deal out of it until he’s about to leave and he starts blindly searching through his stall for his keys, like an idiot. And—“Looking for these?” Freddie asks, dangling his keys from his index finger. “They were on the ground. It’d probably be a better idea just to pick them up next time.”

“Oh,” Connor blurts, and he’s really trying not to take note of the little mark under Freddie’s right eye, but he’s staring. “Thanks, that’s my bad.” 

“No problem.” Freddie gives him his car keys, and he’s about to leave when Connor starts speaking again. 

It’s mostly the push of Zach’s words that finally gets him to crack and go for it. “Would it be cool if I came over tonight? Zach’s spending the night with Willy, and the place is empty without him.”

As dumb as it sounds, it’s true. Their condo is big and empty without Zach there, and Connor isn’t super into the idea of having the whole place to himself. He likes me-time just as much as the next guy, but it’ll get to the point where it just starts feeling lonely. Especially because Zach doesn’t usually get back until late.

You could say he’s codependent, but there’s a line. 

“Yeah, I don’t mind,” Freddie says warmly, and Connor’s almost shellshocked at that.

He’s not sure if he was expecting a no or whether or not Freddie would even grace him with an answer, he doesn’t seem like the type of person to have a roommate in the first place, so there’s that. There’s also Connor’s desperation that factors into the whole thing. So, the chances of a no might’ve been extremely low, but Connor still can’t help the swell of pride in his chest at Freddie’s expectance.

This is another step, he thinks. This is good.

 

 

Freddie’s place is nice. It’s the kind of apartment you’d expect him to live in, with monochrome furniture and spotless surfaces. Connor wasn’t really expecting a mess, but it’s still a little overwhelming to see a room swept entirely clean. It’s a lot better looking than his and Zach’s place, that’s for fucking sure. And Willy’s mess of a house is nowhere near competition, either. 

“Is interior design your hidden talent?” Connor tries toeing his shoes off as carefully as he can, because he doesn’t want to get snow anywhere other than the mat. 

Freddie chuckles, and Connor thinks it might be the first time he’s heard it, mostly because it catches him entirely off guard. It’s warm, and sweet, and rolls off his tongue like honey. “You found me out, IKEA shopping might as well be an Olympic sport.” 

“You’d have an unfair advantage,” Connor says, and gestures to the place. “I mean, seriously, c’mon.”

 

 

It doesn’t take long before they order in some take out, and Freddie’s so fucking sweet about it. Connor isn’t really sure how to take this side of him, the one with tousled hair and warm grey sweats. Who curls up in the corner of the couch and actually enjoys Christmas movies. 

Connor bites his lip, trying not to smile too much, but it’s hard not to when Freddie’s using a chopstick to make hand gestures while he talks. And Connor’s really glad he snagged his sweats and hoodie out of his bag, because it’s so much easier to get comfortable on his couch when he’s not wearing a suit. It’s a lot easier to get lost in the ups and downs of Freddie’s voice, too, listening to his stories while someone onscreen saves Christmas. 

And everytime Freddie meets his gaze, really all Connor can think of is hot cocoa. Sweet, but not too sweet, and perfect, perfect, perfect. 

It might be the beer he’s drinking, but his thoughts are a lot looser around him, like he’ll actually let himself plot out the shit he thinks on a daily basis. As in how he’d kill to touch Freddie’s hair, how incredible it’d be just to have him next to him while he falls asleep, or whether or not his lips are as soft as they look. If Freddie’s would be a gentle with him as he is with everything else. 

The character onscreen starts talking—actually talking—to an elf, and Freddie smiles. 

“Have you ever watched one of those metalworking shows that always air late at night? Like, at 2 AM?” Freddie asks him, taking a swig from his bottle.

“You think I’d be any good with a power tool ever?” Connor shrugs anyways, leaning back against the couch. He wants to press closer in to Freddie, but, like. 

“You don’t have to be any good just to sit around,” Freddie says. “I mean, they’re always showing people how to make chairs and nets, and shit. It’s always this old guy, too, who makes shitty puns about everything he does.” 

“And it’s entertaining?” 

“I love it,” Freddie replies easily, it makes Connor’s throat feel dry. “It’s just interesting to see these people so passionate about something, and then you watch professional athletes. Like, sore losers 90% of the time.” Connor watches him carefully, the way he sloshes the last of his beer around the bottom of the bottle. “They like the sport, but y’know, it’s hard to believe they do it for just that reason, sometimes.”

Connor bites the inside of his cheek, nodding his head.

“I mean, whatever, it’s just. Interesting,” he says dismissively, and then lifts his bottle just slightly. “Want another one?” 

Connor does, he probably shouldn’t, but he takes it when Freddie presses it into his hand. He decides to lean a little further into Freddie’s space too, resting his head on his shoulder. 

He doesn’t get pushed to the side, doesn’t get a complaint, but he does see the smile that turns up on his face, and Connor decides this might be okay. That, for now, he can get lost in just this. 

 

 

“Shit,” Connor blurts out. He isn’t sure how long it’s been, but his muscles refuse to cooperate when he tries shifting, smarting a little in protest. “What time is it?” 

Freddie makes a considering noise, and there’s really no clock in his living room, so he just shrugs. “Past midnight, maybe.”

“I should probably call an uber or something. I can’t drive. Not after drinking.” Connor blows out a small breath, carding a hand through his hair. He's so fucking stupid.

He isn’t even sure when he zoned out and started losing track of time, but it's been long enough. There’s still a movie playing on the screen, and fuck him if he can tell this one apart from the last one—or whether or not they’re still the same one. 

Freddie glances at him, and he offers up a loose smile. “You can stay the night, it’s fine. I’ve got a guest room. Driving back in the morning’ll be easier anyways. You won’t have to worry about leaving your car behind.” Connor really doesn’t want to be a burden, but Freddie says it in a way that makes him feel okay about giving in easily. The hand that’s sitting gingerly on his shoulder might have something to do with that, but Connor doesn’t feel too bad about pressing into it. 

“You sure? I could always ask Zach to pick the car up or something, I wouldn’t even have to deal with it,” he says, but Freddie’s already switching the TV off. There’s a clutter of takeout boxes on the coffee table. Connor’s tired enough that it all just blurs together. 

Freddie scoffs, like he can sense just how tired Connor is, and holds out a hand to help him off the couch. “C’mon, I’ll show to your room.” 

 

 

When Connor wakes up in the morning, all he registers is the muffled whirring of a blender through the floorboards. 

His shoulder is aching from sleeping on it, and he’s having trouble blinking his eyes open in the grey light streaming in through the thin curtains. 

The first thought he has is: _Fuck this._

Because yeah, he very clearly remembers falling asleep at Freddie’s place. He remembers being touchy with him, and falling asleep on his shoulder, and watching fucking Christmas movies. And now he’s still at Freddie’s place, probably looking like a lot more of a mess than he’d like, and he’s supposed to survive breakfast with him without blurting out something stupid

He’s not mad about being here, he’s just slightly unnerved by the circumstances. There’s also the part where he should probably get out from underneath the puffy blanket to actually meet Freddie in the kitchen, so. 

Freddie had shown him the bathroom last night, and left a packaged toothbrush on the counter for him as well, which Connor decides now is a better time than ever to actually make use out of. 

As expected, when Connor finally makes it to the kitchen, Freddie’s got a smoothie blended up. He looks even softer in the mornings. His sweats are riding low on his hips, and Connor’s never been so grateful about someone wearing a shirt. Even if it’s one of the thin team issued ones, it’s better than him having to deal with all of that. 

“Morning,” Freddie says, and pours his smoothie out into a glass. “Got coffee in the pitcher over there, you can help yourself.” 

“Thanks,” Connor says, and takes the cup Freddie hands him. “Like, honestly. For letting me stay the night and for this.” 

Most of his attention is focused on Connor right now, and he tells himself he’s just making sure he doesn’t fuck up and spill the coffee, but it’s still a lot. Freddie only gives certain things all of his attention. So it’s probably going to take some getting used to.

Not that Connor thinks he’s going to get used to it. Not that he thinks he’s actually going to get this again. 

“Hey, I like having you over, you don’t have to thank me,” Freddie insists, and he turns back to wiping down his cutting board.

“I mean, at least Zach won’t complain about me being boring or whatever,” he says, and then, “oh, fuck, _Zach_.”

“What?”

“I didn’t tell him I’d be staying the night,” Connor rushes out, and sets his mug down before he even lets himself take a sip. “Wait, wait, I’ll be back. _Shit_.” 

He hurries out the kitchen and back to his room—the guest room—pulling his phone off the nightstand. When the screen blinks on, the battery bar is under a frightening 15% and he’s got a few texts to scroll through. All of them from Zach.

 _hey, sorry, @ freddie’s i’ll b back_ he quickly types out, and he puts barely any thought into it, because, like, this is Zach. 

When Connor sighs, he swears he feels a pound of relief wash through him. 

 

 

It shouldn’t be a surprise that they start to get along after that, but Connor still can’t help the giddy feeling that bubbles up in his stomach everytime he gets a warm look from Freddie. Because Connor remembers when it wasn’t easy, he remembers when he could share a glance with him and be met wth nothing but stoicism. Now, though, it’s so much more.

Freddie’s still the reserved person he’s always been, always detached from the scene, always straying away. But now Connor knows how to brush some of that away, and Freddie will always show him something more than the bland _we’re teammates_ affection he’s so susceptible to.

Because now Connor could take Freddie to a movie, and Freddie will laugh at a joke the actor on screen makes, and it’s something so fucking foreign for him to be free with his emotions like this. Freddie comes to him in waves, and Connor’s building on that, letting Freddie know that this is okay.

And it’s good—so fucking good.

 

 

Through the plane’s window, Connor can see the the rippling water underneath the night sky. He watches it until it’s nothing more than a memory, and then they’re landing in Montreal, hitting the runway and sliding to a slow glide until all the motions blend together.

Freddie stirs next to him, and Connor gets to watch him blink his eyes open. The first thing Freddie does right there is smile at him, the smallest curve in his lips, and that’s magic all on its own. 

“I fucking hate Montreal,” Freddie tells him, his voice thick with sleep, and Connor glances out the window. 

“I know,” he says, and decides it’ll be okay to lean against him until they’re allowed to get off. “I do, too.” 

When Connor looks up at him, his eyes are sliding shut again, and Connor just waits for his breaths to even out, counting every inhale, every exhale. It calms him, stilling his nerves. 

Then, his phone buzzes. 

On any other occasion, Connor probably wouldn’t turn his phone on, especially because the message is just a group chat notification from Mitch. But he decides it won’t hurt to get it over with now, especially because any other time, he’d have to open it with people who _aren’t_ half asleep around him. 

A picture of him and Freddie pressed together in their seats pops up, captioned with a bunch of sparkly heart emojis and a Danish flag. Connor isn’t very good at deciphering hieroglyphics, but the message gets across. He wants to let it get to him, but it makes him smile. Mitch is a good kid. 

And Zach replies with a bunch of thirst emojis, which is exactly the reason why Connor prefers Mitch.

 

 

Connor doesn’t usually room with Freddie on the road, but they’d already set up arrangements, and they get off the bus to the hotel together, so it really only makes sense that they’re together. Despite all of Zach’s “inconspicuous” texting. 

Connor manages to wake Freddie up long enough that they at least make it to their room before he ends up flopping down on the bed, burying his face in the sheets. It gets a laugh out of Connor. He lets himself squeeze the back of Freddie’s neck as he’s making his way over to the couch to toss his suitcase on it. 

Freddie makes a small noise that sounds a little like it comes from the back of his throat, and he’s sitting up when Connor turns back around. 

“I wish we could take sick days,” he says, scrubbing the side of his face a little. He looks tired and beat out of shape, but it’s the roughest Connor’s ever seen him. Which makes him seem a little more human and a little less intimidating. That much is always welcome. 

“Yeah,” Connor agrees, grabbing the TV remote and sitting down next to him. He crosses his legs, turning the power on just to see the guide pop up. “But you really wouldn’t be able to take one without the rest of us suffering.”

“Not true,” Freddie says, and he splays his hands out behind him, leaning back on them. “Not in Montreal.” 

Connor smiles, and glances over at him long enough to catch a piece of the warmth wavering over his face. “Wow, rough. Who do I have to fight for you tomorrow?” 

“Don’t you dare,” Freddie says, and Connor hopes he’s imagining the way his pulse jumps into his throat. “Let’s try to keep guys out of the ER, especially you.” 

Connor thinks the _especially you_ might’ve been unconscious, but he can’t help the way it makes it a little harder to focus on switching the channel. 

“I’m gonna shower and then crash, do you need the bathroom?” Freddie asks, and Connor silently shakes his head. 

“Go for it,” he says, and finally settles on a channel showing reruns of Friends. 

 

 

Connor’s seen Freddie shirtless enough times that he shouldn’t be this overwhelmed by it, because there have been a lot of times he’s worked a little harder than normal to try and take in Freddie.

But, like, this tops all of that. This knocks it right off the table. 

Freddie’s strolling down their room towards his suitcase in nothing more than a towel clinging to his hips. Droplets of water drip out of his hair and bounce off his shoulder, pooling behind his collarbones. Connor knows he shouldn’t be staring, especially not long enough to catch all of that, but this is stupidly hard to look away from, and suddenly he’s very much regretting taking the bed closer to the bathroom. 

“Holy shit, it’s cold,” Freddie complains, as if he isn’t standing by his suitcase in nothing more than a towel.

Connor would try to form a response, but the soft light from the lamp is just enough to toss shadows across Freddie’s torso. Highlighting every curve and dip of his body, it‘s practically mocking him. Connor isn’t sure how long he’s gone without breathing, but it’s starting to feel like a hot minute.

“Right, yeah, we should probably kick the heater up,” Connor says, swallowing around everything else he could’ve said. All the embarrassing shit. He glues his eyes to his phone the second he hears the towel drop and rapidly texts Zach, _!!!!!!!_

It doesn’t take long for Zach to respond with a very obviously enthusiastic, _what_

 _danish fridge is freshly showered and very much naked right now_ , he sends back, and after hearing a slide of fabric adds, _okay. boxers only._

Zach sends back a couple eye emojis and then, _get that dick u little bitch_

Freddie walks over to the thermostat, all grace and no fucking hesitancy despite just how low he’s wearing his sweats now. And his extreme lack of a t-shirt, which has never helped anyone. 

_sorry, can’t, he’s too good for me. and not gay?? or bi??_ Well, Connor’s considered it, but like. You know.

 _yeah.....but he flirts with you?_ Zach texts. _how straight, i can’t believe i’ve been so blind_

Connor sighs and shuts his phone off, looking back towards the TV where there’s a tedious laugh track playing. Freddie glances over at him, passing him a wry smile. 

“Oh, right,” Connor rushes out, reaching for the remote and turning down the volume. “Sorry, you should get some rest.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Freddie says, and Connor’s eternally thankful for the way he ignores the incessant buzzing of Connor’s phone. 

 

 

It’s after a win against the Jets that Connor asks Freddie if he wants to go out for dinner, which took a whole lot of planning ahead and hyping up before he actually let himself go through with it.

Freddie accepts. Not that Connor was actually expecting him to send him off, but, like. It still feels good to get that bit of validation.

It’s an easy night, nothing special, and Connor gets to steal that extra time with Freddie. He gets to talk to him about the dumbest shit, and get a small smile in return. It’s always small, but it means so fucking much.

And, “Why don’t we do this more often?” Freddie asks. He’s got a neatly crafted bowl of caesar salad sitting in front of him. “I’d rather be here with you than get dragged out with someone else, y’know? It’s nice, with you.” 

“We could,” Connor says conversationally, as if this isn’t all he’s ever wanted to hear. As if he doesn’t lie awake at night thinking about Freddie’s laugh, or the way he says his name, or—or just _him_. To the point where Connor isn’t sure he’ll be able to look him in the eye the next day. 

“We should,” Freddie insists, and he’s wearing a look, something hopeful, that Connor doesn’t think he’d be able to say no to if he was held to gunpoint. That’s really just how easy he is for him. “Just—away from bars and shit, maybe. People there know sports, and that’s just.” He shrugs. “I never know what to say when people come up to me and hold up their phone. And then they tell me to, uh, say hello to their friends?”

“Right, right,” Connor says, laughing. “Yeah, no, I don’t get that either. Like, what do you want me to say? Hello, friends?”

“Never do that,” Freddie insists, piercing a piece of lettuce with his fork. “Or, I mean, you could just wave? But never tell them no, you’ll get attacked on Twitter for it.”

Connor blinks. “Wait. You actually use your Twitter?” 

“I’m not an old man,” Freddie says, looking unimpressed. “Pretty low that you put me in that category when I’m, what, four years older than you? If anything, you’re a child.” 

“Barely,” Connor protests. “I just thought you were more of a MySpace kind of guy.”

“You think you’re so funny.”

“I’m just _saying_.” 

Nobody approaches them in the restaurant, which is usually just courtesy, but even as they’re in the parking lot, not a single person comes up to them. It’s a breath of fresh air, especially while they’re still in the GTA. He gets to talk to Freddie uninterrupted, and that feels like something he should treasure. Away from the rink, and teammates, and fans, and it’s. Just. 

“I had fun tonight,” Connor says, when they turn onto his street. He isn’t sure what else to say without making this feel like a date, but he’s flattered. He feels good and he wants Freddie to know that. For him to know that he enjoys being with him. 

Being with him as in being in his presence. Not like—not like _that_. Even though, he thinks, maybe. 

“Yeah,” Freddie agrees. “Thanks for hanging out with me, this was nice.” 

They pull up in front of his condo, and Connor swallows. He’s supposed to tell Freddie goodbye here. He’s supposed to be bros, and thank him for the good time, and just let it go. Countless people do it everyday.

But when he looks back at Freddie, he’s smiling at him, and he looks so good. He’s looked good all night, and Connor wants this more than ever. He’s wanted it for so long. 

“Connor,” Freddie says softly, like he’s trying to shake him out of a sleep without being too rough, and Connor swears he must’ve forgotten how to speak english because he can barely piece together a sentence anymore. 

“Freddie, I just—I need.” He pops his bottom lip into his mouth, thinking hard. “You can say no, but. If I kissed you, would that be okay? Just. I need to know.”

“I—“ Freddie snaps his mouth shut, and Connor swears he feels his heart stutter in his chest when he nods his head. Slowly, as if to make sure Connor doesn’t miss it.

And—it might not be a good idea to do it. To kiss Freddie here and now, where anybody could see him, but he leans over and decides to forget about everything else, just for a moment. For a moment, he lets himself cup the side of Freddie’s face and lose himself underneath his lips. 

When he kisses him, it’s like letting himself have something after months of wanting it. It’s freeing, finally giving into temptation, and being _allowed_ to. 

It took enough courage that when he sits back down in his seat, his head is spinning. His lips are tingling, and Freddie’s looking at him with wide eyes, like he can’t believe that happened. That’s just about where Connor’s at, too. 

“You should come in,” Connor says, and Freddie looks past him, out the window. 

“What about Zach?”

“Fuck.” He turns around, and the lights in the living room are still on, leaking out from around the blinds. There’s no way he’d be able to sneak Freddie in, not like that.

“Maybe later,” Freddie promises with a smile, and Connor nods. It’s not the best compromise, but he can work with that.

Something else he can work with is sticking around in the car for the next few minutes, kissing Freddie over the gearshift until his mouth feels numb. And he does. It’s what he deserves.


End file.
